Yours
by allthingsdecent
Summary: A little season 6 reboot. Because seriously? Cuddy and WIlson totally would've reached out to House when he was at Mayfield.
1. Chapter 1

Yours

Wilson was tired. It had been a draining day—emotionally and physically. After all, it wasn't every day you dropped your best friend off at a mental institution. All he really wanted to do was make himself a cup of tea, take a bath, and go to bed.

But he had promised Cuddy he'd call her when he got home.

He looked at his watch. 11 pm. She was probably still up. He took a chance and dialed the number.

She answered after one ring.

"Where are you?" she said. There was an anxious edge to her voice.

"I'm home," Wilson said.

"And House?"

"I admitted him to Mayfield."

"The mental institution? House isn't crazy. What the hell is going on, Wilson?"

Wilson paused, swallowed.

"He was. . .hallucinating."

"Hallucinating what?"

"He was. . .seeing things that weren't there."

"I don't understand."

"He was seeing people. Talking to them. . . Actually, it was mostly Amber."

"Amber? _Your_ Amber? Like a . . ._ghost_?" Even as Cuddy said it, the words didn't ring true. House didn't believe in God, let alone an afterlife.

"More like an apparition, I guess," Wilson said. "And in the end, Kutner was there, too. They were talking to him."

"Jesus, Wilson."

"I know it's a lot to digest."

"But what does it all have to do with me?" she said. "He was going on about sealing agents in my lipstick and about me helping him. I couldn't make any sense of it."

"You were. . . part of the hallucination, too," Wilson said cautiously. Then he added with a nervous chuckle: "But I guess you figured that out when he announced from the hospital balcony that you two had slept together."

The fact was, she had just assumed he was finally referencing their Michigan tryst to humiliate her.

"I just thought he was trying to piss me off," Cuddy said, half truthfully.

"He was. On my advice, oddly enough."

"What?"

"Never mind that. Suffice it to say, he was confused."

"Now _I'm_ confused, Wilson."

"I am too. All I can say is, he's been through a lot lately. I think his own guilt over his role in Amber's death was weighing on him more than we know. Throw in his father dying, then Kutner. Plus his addiction. It was all too much for him. He had a . . . breakdown."

Cuddy closed her eyes, tried to absorb the reality what he was saying.

"I feel like a complete idiot. I didn't see it."

"No one did, Cuddy. We can't blame ourselves. House is a master in the art of hiding his pain."

"I still don't . ..I don't understand what role I played in all this. The other people he hallucinated were both dead."

"It's not my place to explain Cuddy," Wilson said. "I'm sure House will tell you when he gets out."

"And when will that be?"

"I don't know. First he needs to detox. That could take a few days, even a week. After that, talking therapy I guess. Anti-depressants. Or even. . . anti-psychotics."

Cuddy shook her head.

"House won't last a week at Mayfield. He'll just outsmart everybody and bluff his way out of there."

"I don't think so Cuddy. I think he's really scared this time. He knows he needs help."

"Now I'm scared."

"I know. Me too. But House is a strong guy. He'll get through this."

"When can we talk to him? Visit him?"

"I don't know. I'm assuming he'll contact us when he's ready."

Cuddy sighed, deeply.

"You're a good man, Wilson. He's lucky to have you as a friend."

"Today, I felt less like his friend and more like his jailer."

"You did the right thing. You said so yourself. House knew he needed this."

"He did. But it was hard to watch him go through those doors. He seemed so. . .small. Normally, House is larger than life to me."

"To everybody."

There was a brief, heavy pause.

Finally, Wilson chuckled a bit and said, "So how was the wedding?"

"The wedding?" Cuddy said. She had almost forgotten about it. "Oh, uh, beautiful, I guess. A bit of a blur to be honest. I was distracted."

"I know. I can't imagine what must've been going through your mind."

"My mind is _still_ racing."

"Just give it some time, Cuddy. All will be explained soon enough." He was trying—and failing—to sound sure of himself.

Then he yawned, involuntarily.

"You must be exhausted," she said, sympathetically. "Thanks for calling. Try to get some sleep."

"Yeah, you too."

"Good night."

After she hung up, Cuddy replayed the events of the day in her head. It was beginning to be more clear, but it still felt like she was missing huge pieces of the puzzle.

He'd had a hallucination of sorts—where she helped him (but with what?) and possibly slept with him?

Her mind flashed to House asking her to move in with him. So he had. . . meant that? He wanted a real relationship with her after all? She shook off the thought. Of course, she couldn't trust anything House had said or done in the past few days. He was, as Wilson said, having a breakdown.

How could she have missed the signs? How could she, one of the two people closest to House in the world, not see that he was falling apart? She felt like a horrible friend, a horrible person.

She closed her eyes and tossed and turned and tried, in vain, to get some sleep.

#####

Predictably, Wilson heard from House two weeks later, some nonsense about running license plate numbers so House could blackmail his psychiatrist. But Wilson had been warned House would try to pull something like that—it was fairly typical behavior for inpatients to try to recruit their friends in escape plots—and Wilson, firmly, said no.

Then three weeks later, House called again. This time, he seemed more resigned to his treatment. They had a lengthy, surprisingly candid and substantial conversation.

The minute he got off the phone, Wilson made his way to Cuddy's office.

"I spoke to House," he said, standing in her doorway.

Cuddy was on hold with an insurance rep. She hung up without even bothering to say goodbye

She gestured for him to close the door behind him.

"How is he? How was the detox? Are the hallucinations gone? Is he going to be okay?" The words came out in a rush.

"Let's take 'em one at a time," Wilson said, smiling a bit. "He sounded good. Strong. Resolved. The detox was hell, he said. They had to chain him to his bed so he wouldn't hurt himself."

"Oh my God."

"I know. But he's clean now. And the pain is manageable. The hallucinations are totally gone. At first, he wanted to leave right away, just like you said. And he did everything in his power to scam his way out of there. But he has a doctor he actually seems to respect."

"Wow. The wonders never cease."

Wilson nodded.

"I know. . . A guy named Nolan. And Nolan reminded House that he checked himself into a mental institution for a reason. Addicts go to rehab. People who had. . . psychotic breaks go to mental health facilities."

"You don't have to quite put it like that," Cuddy said sharply.

"How else should I put it? That's what it was."

Cuddy sighed, pursed her lips.

"So what else did he say?"

"He said that he and Nolan are working on his issues of trust. On gaining some humility. Asking for help. Admitting that he's actually human."

"Now _that_ I'll believe when I see," Cuddy said, with a grim chuckle.

"Yeah, me too."

Cuddy looked down at her hands.

"And did he happen to mention me?" she said, trying to keep her voice casual.

"You didn't come up," Wilson said.

"Oh," she said, hurt.

He smiled.

"I'm just kidding. Of course we talked about you."

"That was mean."

"Sorry. With House out of the picture, someone has to give you grief."

"What did he say?"

"He asked if he was still fired. And I said no."

"Good."

"And he asked if you were mad at him. And I said you were concerned, not mad."

"True."

"And then he asked how much you knew about his hallucination and I said, not much. That it was his place to tell you, not me. And he said he would write you a letter."

"A letter?"

"Yeah. He's not allowed visitors. At least not anyone from the hospital. It's part of the therapy."

"We can't visit him?"

"He says no. But he promised he'd be in touch with you soon."

"So now what?"

"Now. . . you wait."  
#####

Three weeks later, an envelope came to her home from the Mayfield Psychiatric Institute from G. House. Cuddy ripped into it like she was a child opening a birthday present. She read.

_Hey Cuddy –_

_Sorry about the handwritten letter. We're not allowed to have computers here, for reasons unclear. (We might be tempted to . . . write a manuscript? Play online solitaire?)_

_Lucky for you, I have halfway decent handwriting, for a doctor at least. Last time Wilson wrote me a scrip for Vicodin, the pharmacist gave me a loaf of bread and a gallon of milk instead. Heh. _

_So, I'm guessing you have lots of questions, huh? I wish I had all the answers, but I don't. (Some might say that sentence alone implies progress.)_

_Detoxing sucked. I mean, seriously sucked. Here is a list for you:  
_

_1. stabbing myself in with a hot poker in my eye_

_2. doing unlimited clinic hours_

_3. listening to Wilson talk about caring all day_

_These are just a few things I'd rather do than ever detox again. Yeah, it was that bad. _

_So now that part is over and I find myself, well, in the loony bin. As we like to say here in Mayfield, the accommodations at this hotel aren't that bad, but all the guests are a little crazy. _

_Do I fit in with the manic depressives, the schizos, the catatonics? No. But I guess I don't really fit in anywhere, do I?_

_My roommate is this live-wire who refuses to take his meds named Alvie. He literally won't shut up. I spent the first month tuning him out, now he's just part of the wallpaper. When he stops talking, I actually miss it. _

_I know… I know…You're stalling, House. _

_You probably want to know where you fit into all of this lunacy. We haven't gotten to that day in therapy yet, I'll get back to you. (Hey, it was worth a shot). Okay, here's what I know._

_My subconscious knew I was in deep shit and that I needed help. So I asked for help. But not really. In my hallucination. In reality, I insulted your kid (sorry bout that) and you (justifiably) got pissed and left. In my hallucination, you helped me get off drugs. You were there for me every step of the way. (Yes, there was sex. I wasn't going to waste a good Cuddy hallucination without some sex, right?)_

_So what does it all mean? Beats the hell out of me. Nolan—that's my shrink—thinks I see you as some sort of Madonna/Whore/Savior figure all rolled into one. But he tends to make shit up. I don't know. I wish I hadn't insulted your kid. I know that. And I wish I really did ask for your help. Because a part of me wants to believe that you actually would've said yes. That's what Nolan says, at least. That all I had to do was ask._

_But do me a favor, Cuddy, okay? Don't get weird about this. Don't read too much into it, and don't freak out. Trust me, I'm freaking out plenty for both of us. _

_And, in the spirit of asking for things, maybe you could write back? Mail day—or as I like to call it, quiet study time—is Fridays. _

_Anyway, I gotta go. They're having a One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest marathon in the rec room that I don't want to miss. (Not really.)_

_Still crazy after all these years, _

_House _

Cuddy read the letter four times. The first time she read it, she actually teared up. _A part of you wants to believe that you actually would've said yes._ Of course I would've said yes, you idiot. Of course.

She was slightly frustrated by his dismissive account of his sexual fantasy. She had sensed that day that it meant more. But, still.. . this letter was a big step for House. He was opening up, sharing feelings. It was practically unheard of.

She got out a piece of paper and a pen—responding to a handwritten note with a typed one just seemed wrong—and started to write.

She wrote everything that was in her heart and mind—it wasn't fair to accuse House of holding back, if she did the same.

She got stuck on the sign-off. Love? Too personal. Best of luck? Too informal. The little "xo" sign? House would never let her hear the end of it. She finally decided on the perfect way to end it.

She put the letter in an envelope and dropped it in the mail.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry for the super-short chapter, but I'll be busy all weekend and not sure when I'll be able to post next. Figured this was better than nothing.**

A part of him wished he hadn't sent the letter to begin with. Not necessarily because he had shared too much (but he had, hadn't he? especially that part about regretting not asking for her help . . . that made him look like a chump). But no, because sending that letter had now left him with that most useless and feeble of emotions: Hope.

It was Friday and the desk nurse was opening the mailbag, as she always did, reading out the names of patients who had received letters—each of whom responded with predictable squeals of triumph and delight.

Normally, House was completely uninterested in this little tableaux. He would sit in the corner with his headphones on, listening to music or reading a book, barely registering the activity around him. Nolan accused him of only pretending not to care, but that wasn't true. He really didn't. Caring was for those other guys, the losers. The ones with hope.

Today though, while he still hung back, every time the nurse called out a name: "Peterson! Cortez! Warshovksi!" he felt just the tiniest bit deflated.

She's busy, he thought. Maybe she's still thinking things over. She doesn't have time to write. . .

"House!"

He got up and limped up to the nurse, as slowly as he could bear. She handed him the letter with a knowing smile.

"I knew it was just a matter of time, Greg," she said.

He looked at the letter. Handwritten. On Cuddy's personal stationery. It was all he could do not to let out a little shout of joy himself.

Alvie, of course, was immediately all over him.

"Who sent you a letter? Who sent you a letter?" he said, hopping up and down next to House as though on an invisible pogo stick.

"None of your business," House said—and he hugged the letter into his chest, so Alvie couldn't read the address.

"Ooooooh, House has got a girlfriend! House has got a girlfriend!" Alvie sang.

"Fuck off," House said. And he went back to his chair in the corner.

He had an incredible urge to actually _smell_ the letter, which he managed to suppress. But when he opened it, damned if he didn't catch the tiniest whiff of her perfume. How did women do that?

He took a deep breath and read:

_**House-**_

_**I want to start this letter by saying I'm sorry. Yes, I'm sorry. I had no idea you were in such pain. I missed the signs. To be honest, House, sometimes you seem invincible to me. Which is crazy, I know. You're just a man. (Okay, a super brilliant, extraordinarily gifted, supremely annoying man, but a man all the same.) A better friend would've been there for you. And I wish I had been. Truly.**_

_**But, in my defense (ha, so much for the apology portion of this letter!), you don't make it easy on me. You put up these walls—these huge, impenetrable walls. And every time I feel like we're getting closer, you push me away. **_

_**I'm not here to hash out the past year of our relationship. But I will say this: Ever since the night we kissed, the night I lost Joy, it's been one step forward, two steps back with you. I've never felt closer to you than I did that night. But since then, we've reverted to our usual game playing, our usual tango of evasion and denial, with neither of us willing to give an inch. I so want to put myself out there with you, House. I do. But almost every time I lower my defenses, I get burned.**_

_**You once asked me why I cared if you were happy. Of course, I care if you're happy, you idiot. I sometimes think you don't realize how much you mean to me. In some ways, you're always going to be the boy on campus I have a crush on. Nothing will change that. Not your stint at Mayfield and certainly not your hallucination about me. (And by the way, you're not the only one who has fantasies from time to time, pal.)**_

_**House, I'm so proud of you for getting off vicodin and I'm even more proud of you for asking for help. I know how hard that is for you. Ironically, I think it might be the bravest thing you've ever done.**_

_**So where does this leave us? Maybe when you get out of that Godforsaken place, we'll be able to communicate better. I know I'm going to try. I feel like this could be turning point for our relationship. I hope so.**_

_**Yours,**_

_**Cuddy**_

He kept reading his favorite parts over and over again: _You're not the only one who has fantasies_. . . _The boy on campus I have a crush on_. . . and, most significantly, _Yours_.

Was she really his? he wondered.

And he must've had a stupid grin on his face because he looked up and there was Lydia, the nice lady whose sister-in-law was catatonic, the one he had played piano with a few times—and she was beaming at him.

"You look happy," she said.

"I. . . am," he admitted.

"Letter from your girlfriend?" she teased.

"Actually, my boss."

She squinted at him.

"And your . . .lover?"

"No," he said. "Not yet. Maybe. . . Hopefully. Soon."

"You love this woman?"

House felt his face flush.

"I didn't say that," he said, tucking the letter inside his jacket pocket.

"But she's important to you?"

"It's important that I have sex with her," House said. Even as he said it, he felt like a jerk. If he couldn't be honest with Lydia, how could he possibly be honest with Cuddy?

Lydia pulled up a chair, sat down next to him.

"So tell me about her, this woman you want to have sex with."

"What do you want to know?" He was, strangely, eager to talk about Cuddy. Talking about Cuddy, the letter, would make it all more real.

"What does she look like?"

"She's a knockout," he said.

"You can do better than that," she said.

"She's. . . a real woman, you know?" he said, musingly. "She doesn't need to dress like a man to be strong. And that's so fucking sexy to me. She's the strongest woman I know—the strongest person I know. But there's a vulnerability there too, just beneath the surface, that not everyone gets to see. And somehow, that just makes her stronger. It's . . . bewitching."

He looked up. Lydia was giving him a curious look.

"What's that face for?" he said.

"I just asked you to describe a woman you allegedly only want to have sex with and yet you managed not to mention a single one of her physical attributes."

"She also has an amazing rack," House said, quickly.

"Too late!" Lydia said, with a laugh. "You really do love her, don't you?"

House sighed. Fuck it.

"I guess I do," he said.

####


	3. Chapter 3

Dear Cuddy-

Greetings from the Hotel Mayfield, where the suites are padded, the jackets are straight, and room service comes in tiny RX bottles.

Thanks for your letter. I only read it once and it meant absolutely nothing to me. (See what I did there?)

So. . .how's good ol' PPTH? Has my team managed to diagnose anything more complicated than a streptococcal pharyngitis? And my boy Wilson? Has he gotten married and divorced since last we spoke?

Everything is status quo here. Leg hurts a little less every day. I'd now characterize the pain now as merely excruciating. (A major upgrade from totally unbearable.) Still trying to adjust to having my head constantly shrunk. I'm sick of hearing the sound of my own voice—all that constant whining about my shitty life, talking about my feelings. If I were Nolan, I'd reach across the desk and throttle me. But he can't seem to get enough of it. Occupational hazard, I suppose.

Last week, Nolan asked me if my father loved me. I almost laughed in his face. After 60 years of psychotherapy, that's STILL the best they can do?

So I told him the truth: My father didn't love anything except for the epaulettes on his shoulders, his beloved United States Marines, and, maybe, my mother. (She loved him enough for the both of them, I suppose.)

And he wasn't really my dad anyway. Did Wilson ever blab to you about that? (If not, the wonders never cease.) I did a little secret DNA test after the Colonel croaked—it confirmed my long-held suspicions: I'm not his kid. Did he know? Or did he just sense it? He must've taken one look at me—always mouthing off, always challenging his authority, my clothing unpressed, my hair unruly—and said: There is no way in hell that's my kid.

Nolan seems to think this is a fascinating and pertinent revelation. So now we talk about John House all the time. My father is having the last laugh, even from beyond the grave.

Alright, gotta go. It's karaoke night and I'm planning on singing Patsy Cline's "I Fall to Pieces." (Or maybe "Crazy"? Either works.)

Another letter from you certainly would NOT make my day.

Still endeavoring to put the "ass" in asylum,

House

P.S. Care to elaborate on those fantasies you mentioned?

Dear House-

Holy bombshells, Batman! I had no idea your dad wasn't your dad. Wilson never said a word.

But it all kind of makes sense, in a way. I only met your dad briefly, but he was nothing like you—there was a coarseness there, a kind of cookie-cutter machismo. I just assumed you took after your mom.

So. . .wow. (Does that mean your mom had an affair? How scandalous! Do you know with whom? Was the milkman also a genius iconoclast with beautiful blue eyes by any chance?)

I was a Daddy's Girl all the way, needless to say. Julia had Mom. And I had Dad.

And now he's gone. I miss him more than I can say.

For your sake, I hope you never have to meet Hurricane Arlene, the mother of all Jewish mothers, as I like to call her. I can relate to what you're saying about your dad. Nothing I ever did was good enough for her. I got straight As, was head cheerleader (shut up, House!), head of the debate team, even class president—and it still wasn't enough. Meanwhile, Julia struggled to maintain a B average, and she was the apple of Arlene's eye.

But thank goodness neither of us felt compelled to overachieve as a way of proving them wrong, huh? (Ahh, parents. They do have a unique way of screwing us up for life.)

Speaking of screw ups: What's the deal with your sketchy friend Lucas? He keeps hanging around my office, concocting all these lame excuses to come visit me. Do you think he's. . . investigating me? Weird.

Anyway, I'm glad things are going well for you at Mayfield, and I sure hope your pain can change from "excruciating" to "Taub-like irritant." But don't get too comfortable okay? PPTH is totally boring without you. I miss you, House.

Yours,

Cuddy

P.S. You wish.

He smirked a bit, reading her post-script. Flirty Cuddy was quite possibly his favorite Cuddy of all.

"Dr. Cuddy again?" Lydia asked.

"How'd you guess?" he said, looking at his feet.

"Because the only time I ever see you look happy is when you're reading one of her letters."

She sat down, straddled a chair next to him. He gave a slight smile—in another life, in some alternative universe where he wasn't incurably hung up on a certain raven-haired Dean of Medicine, he could almost see liking her.

"But this particular letter posed a problem," he said, tapping the letter on his pants leg.

"What sort of a problem?"

"Competition," House said.

"Like, from another man?" she said.

"A friend of mine. Well, not really a friend. More like a hanger-on. His name is Lucas."

"Is he formidable competition?"

"I'm not sure," House said, cautiously.

"Is he handsome like you?"

He grinned at her.

"You think I'm handsome?"

"False modesty doesn't become you, Greg."

House shrugged.

"The Single White Gimp thing isn't generally considered a babe magnet."

Lydia raised her eyebrow.

"Au contraire. Women love a man who is damaged," she said.

"So you think that's why Cuddy likes me?"

"Absolutely," Lydia cracked. "You're handsome, brilliant, talented. But I'm sure she loves you for your limp."

House laughed.

"Lucas has no limp. So I've got that on him," he said. "But he does have one advantage over me."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"He's out there. And I'm stuck in here."

Just then, one of the nurses came into the common room and walked right up to House.

"Greg, Dr. Nolan wants to see you," she said.

"Now?"

"Now."

House shrugged at Lydia.

"To be continued . . ." he said, nervously.

"Good luck," she said, with an encouraging smile.

And House followed the nurse toward Nolan's office.

Dear Cuddy-

I've got good news and bad news.

The good news is: I'm coming home! Nolan called me into his office and said they were releasing me on the 10th. I hope I can adjust to life on the outside and this doesn't turn into one of those _Shawshank Redemption_ deals where I pretend to hallucinate just so I can be admitted again.

The bad news: It would appear that our brief and illustrious period as pen pals has come to an end. So much for _The Complete and Unexpurgated Letters of Gregory House and Lisa Cuddy_. Speaking of unexpurgated: Really, Cuddy? You deny a jailed man even a tiny glimpse of your fantasy? Harsh, dude.

As for Lucas, have you tried some sort of bug repellant? One of those roach bombs? If not, a firm, "fuck off" might do the trick. Better still, just let me handle him when I get back.

See you in a week, boss.

-House

"What are you grinning about?" Wilson said.

She looked up.

"Just reading a letter from House," she admitted.

"So House really sent you that letter, huh?"

"_Letters._ Plural. This one says he's coming home next week."

"I know," Wilson said. "He called me and asked me to pick him up."

"So he's really coming home," she said.

He peered at her expectantly.

"And how do you feel about this?"

"Excited," Cuddy admitted. "Nervous."

"Nervous?"

"I don't know, Wilson. We seem to have turned a corner. He's been opening up to me, sharing his feelings. He even told me about his dad."

"He did? Whoa. That's huge."

"I feel like it is, too."

"So you think maybe you guys are finally ready progress from the hair-pulling, frog-on-the-chair stuff and have a real, adult relationship?"

Cuddy nodded thoughtfully.

"I don't know Wilson," she said. "I think . . . maybe we are."


	4. Chapter 4

Cuddy felt surprisingly giddy the day House was due back at the hospital.

She wore a nice outfit, fussed a bit over her makeup, and then chided herself for being so excited. He's still just House, she thought. He's seen you sweaty and covered in a conversion disorder rash at 40,000 feet.

But still. . . Something _had_ changed between them. There was a new closeness that could not be denied. She felt, strangely, like she was getting ready to see a boyfriend who was coming home from a long trip. She wondered if they would embrace hello—or maybe even kiss?

Her illusions, such as they were, were quickly shattered when House showed up in her office—with Foreman no less—to announce that he wanted to quit.

She took in his appearance—beard fuller, hair cut to a near crew-cut that gave him a vaguely institutional look ("because I've been in an _institution_," House would probably say), no discernible loss of weight. But there was something else—something unfamiliar in his eyes: Fear. He was completely freaking out.

House's freaking out had the effect of freaking _her_ out. In his letters, he'd seemed so resolved, so strong. In person, he seemed out of sorts, unsure of himself. Smaller, as Wilson had said.

"House, are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said. "And I want to stay that way."

After he left, she kept waiting for him to come back, to talk to her privately. But he never came.

She felt like she wanted to cry.

####

House had pussied out. He knew that. Not just quitting his job, but avoiding Cuddy.

But his worst fear—the creeping doubt that had managed to infect nearly every positive thought he'd had about Cuddy at Mayfield—had been confirmed when he saw the look in her eyes. She wasn't just concerned for him, she was _afraid_ for him.

She thinks you're a nutjob, he thought. A ticking time bomb likely to blow at any moment.

He actually had the same fear for himself.

The sad thing was, he had managed to convince himself that the Cuddy of the letters was a little love with him. But letters are one thing. Real life was something else completely.

In real life, he was a misanthropic recovering drug addict just out of the loony bin and she was a new mother with a prestigious job—a pillar of the God damned community.

How he had managed, even for a second, to think they could work together was beyond him.

But still. . . he owed her an explanation, a conversation, _something_, right?

So the next day, he went back to the hospital, headed to her office. But when he got there, he stopped dead in his tracks.

Lucas was sitting in the chair across from her desk, looking at Cuddy like he was a Doberman and she was a piece of raw meat he was slobbering over.

House hovered for a few seconds, watched them talk—Cuddy wasn't exactly flirting with him, but she didn't seem annoyed either—and then turned and limped away.

#####

"So how's House?" Lucas said to Cuddy. "I hear he quit."

"He did," Cuddy said, curtly.

"So what's that all about? Weren't they supposed to cure him at that place?"

"It's not about being cured," Cuddy said. "It's about making positive changes in your life. I support House in all of his decisions."

"Oh yeah, me too," Lucas said, trying to impress her. "Of course."

She didn't reply.

"There is one major problem with House not working here," he added, with a grin.

"What's that?" Cuddy said, barely paying attention.

"I need to figure out a new excuse to come visit you," he said.

She looked up.

"Why do you need to come visit me at all?" she said.

"Oh, don't be like that," Lucas said.

"Like what?"

"Hard to get. You know I like you. Any chance you'll have dinner with me Friday night?"

"No," Cuddy said. She looked back down at her paperwork, hoping he would just go away.

"I'm very persistent, you know. You may as well just say yes now and save yourself a lot of hassle."

Cuddy's mind flashed to the letter—to House's advice.

"Lucas," she said. "What I would really like for you to do is to fuck off."

He grinned at her—much to her great annoyance.

"I love a challenge," he said, popping up. "See you _real_ soon, Dr. Cuddy."

#####

If House wouldn't come to her. . .screw it, she would go to him.

So she went to his apartment, knocked on his door.

"I'm making gnocchi," he said, with incongruous cheer.

There was a Chinese woman at the kitchen counter, rolling dough. She didn't understand English, House explained. So they could speak freely.

The whole scene was so surreal—House cooked? And who was this strange woman? She had the vague feeling she had stepped into the wrong apartment.

She tried to talk to him, tried to draw him out. But he remained as impenetrable as that day in her office.

"House," she said, feebly. "I'm going to miss you."

"Lady, either kiss him or leave," the Chinese woman said, in perfect English. "We've got work to do."

Great.

"You just couldn't keep your trap shut," House said to her.

"House," Cuddy said, trying to focus him. "Can we talk for a minute. Alone?"

House looked at her, then looked at his cooking companion.

He said something to her in Chinese, then cocked his head toward the living room, gestured for Cuddy to follow.

"What's up?" he said once they were out of the woman's earshot, folding his arms.

"What's_ up_?" she said.

"Yeah, what's up?"

"Why are acting like this?"

"Like what?"

"So . . . _weird_."

"I am weird, remember? Fresh out of the loony bin."

"That's not what I meant," she said, frustrated.

"Isn't it?"

"House. . .what about the letters?" She was fighting back tears.

"The letters were then. This is now."

"But what changed?" she said.

"I don't know. Why don't you ask Lucas what changed?" he said.

She literally had no idea where that come from.

"_Lucas_?"

"You guys looked awfully chummy in your office yesterday."

So he _had _come by to see her.

"I'm not interested in Lucas!" Cuddy said.

"Maybe you should be," House said. "He's not liable to BLOW at any moment."

He said "blow" so loudly that she jumped a bit. He smirked at her, as though this had just proven his point.

Her hurt feelings were now mingling with anger.

"Why do I make the same mistake every single time?" she said, shaking her head.

"What mistake?"

"Caring about you. Thinking you might change."

And she stormed out of his apartment.

House watched her, dumbly.

"Fuck," he said out loud.

"You should stick to cooking," his classmate said. "You're lousy with women."  
#####

He called Nolan and asked if he could see him. It was his second time seeing Nolan since he'd gotten out of Mayfield.

He hated crutches (and not just because he used a real one of sorts)— hated the thought that he needed help to survive on the outside. But he was a little lost.

"How's the new hobby?" Nolan asked.

"I can make a perfect sous vide steak, an impeccable panna cotta, and gnocchi so pillowy you want to sleep on them. In other words, I'm bored to tears."

"Time to find a new hobby, I guess," Nolan said.

House shrugged.

"I guess," he said.

"But that's . . .not why you're here."

"No," House admitted.

"How was the reunion with Dr. Cuddy?"

House blinked at him.

"Am I that predictable?" he said.

"A bit," Nolan said, with a chuckle.

"I think I fucked up," House said.

"How so?"

"I did that thing I do. That thing where I push her away."

"Why?"

"Because. . .she was treating me like this fragile creature. Like I was liable to break at any moment."

"How exactly was she treating you like that?"

House shrugged.

"I don't know. It wasn't anything she said. It was the way she looked at me."

Nolan gave a knowing smile.

"So you've decided to give up on the woman you love—the woman we devoted countless hours of therapy to, I might add—because she looked at you funny."

It sounded ridiculous when he put it like that.

"You weren't there," House mumbled.

"I have an idea," Nolan said. "But I'm not sure if you're going to go for it."

"I'm game for anything at this point," House said.

"Good," Nolan said. "Just promise me you'll keep an open mind."

######

The next day, House lurked outside Cuddy's office before finally mustering up the nerve to go in.

She was typing something on her computer.

She stopped when she saw him.

"What's up," she said, slightly impatient.

"Hi," he said, shyly.

She softened.

"Hi," she said.

"I want to apologize for the other day, at my apartment. You caught me off-guard."

"I just wanted to talk to you, House," she said. "We haven't had a chance to really talk since you got back."

"I know," he said, fiddling with his cane. "That's actually why I'm here."

"Good!" she said. "Do you want to . . .have lunch? Just talk here? Maybe get a drink after work?"

House looked at his feet.

"I saw Dr. Nolan yesterday," he said.

"And?"

"And he thinks we might benefit from airing some things out in a. . . controlled setting."

"Controlled?"

"Like, um, his office," House said.

She finally got it.

"You want me to come to therapy with you," she said.

"Only if you want to. No pressure," House said. He was having a hard time making eye contact.

"I . . . don't feel pressured," she said. "That actually sounds like a great idea."

#######


	5. Chapter 5

Cuddy pulled into the small, unremarkable professional building where Dr. Nolan had his private practice.

She was 15 minutes early—a tendency she had when she was nervous—so she sat in the car, blotting and reapplying her lipstick, listening to NPR, reading her emails—anything to calm her nerves.

Her heart was racing.

"They're waiting for you," the receptionist said, when she went inside.

She entered Nolan's office.

It was a fairly standard doctor's office—book shelf stuffed with medical tomes and just a few novels (_Moby Dick_, _David Copperfield_), so as not to appear stuffy; a tweedy coach and chair; impressive degrees on the walls (Harvard Medical School!); a few personal photos on the highly polished desk.

When House saw Cuddy, he stood up. (She always found his chivalry touching—something his father must've ingrained in him at an early age.)

Nolan remained seated.

"I'm not late, am I?" she said. House and Nolan looked settled in, like they'd been there for a while.

"No, you're right on time," Nolan said cheerfully. "We had a little pre-session, just to prepare. I'm Dr. Nolan."

"Dr. Lisa Cuddy," she said.

They shook hands. Then Nolan gestured for her to sit next to House on the couch. House scooted over so that they wouldn't be touching.

"Thank you for coming," Nolan said.

"Thank you for having me," Cuddy said. It suddenly seemed a very stupid thing to say.

"I want to you know that even thought I'm treating House, I'm not his advocate. I'm on no one's 'side' here. I just want to create a safe, non-judgmental atmosphere for open dialogue."

"Kind of like how I run my team," House said.

His joke was welcome. Cuddy laughed, felt the tension lift a bit.

"I want to talk about your relationship and how you both feel about each other. Let's start at the beginning, shall we?" Nolan said.

House and Cuddy exchanged a look.

"I hope you've cleared your schedule," House cracked.

"And maybe brought in a cot," Cuddy added.

Nolan smiled.

"I know. Long history," he said. "How about more recent events: House's hallucination about you. How much do you know about it?"

"I know that in the hallucination, he asked me to help him detox—and I did. And I. . ."—she looked at House—"I know that afterward, we had sex."

"How did news of that hallucination make you feel?"

"He'll be asking you that question a lot by the way," House said. "Nolan never met a psychiatric cliché he didn't embrace."

Nolan ignored him. He was looking at Cuddy. She realized she was supposed to give an answer.

"It, um, made me feel guilty," she said. "Because I wasn't really there for him. Because I didn't see the signs of his distress."

"Guilty . . ." Nolan echoed, like she had said something quite fascinating.

"Yeah," Cuddy said. Did she give the wrong answer? _Was _there a wrong answer? (She was used to nailing tests.)

"What else did you feel?"

"Flattered, I guess," she said. "Because in the hallucination, he turned to me. I was the one he asked for help."

"And that made you feel good?"

"House doesn't ask for help very often—or ever, to be honest. So the fact that he asked for my help, even in an hallucination, yeah. . . it made me feel like I was someone important to him."

She looked over to House, who started to say something, then stopped.

"And you want to be important to House?" Nolan said.

"Yes, of course. I'd like to be as important to House as . . . House is to me."

House mumbled something under his breath.

"What was that?" Nolan said to House.

"You _are_," he said to Cuddy

"Thank you," Cuddy said, trying to suppress a smile, folding her hands on her lap.

"And the sexual part of the fantasy?" Nolan said her. "How did that make you feel?"

Cuddy shrugged.

"Not exactly surprised," she said. "House always wants to have sex with me."

"Told you!" House said, to Nolan.

"And what about you?" Nolan said.

"Do I always want to have sex with him?" Cuddy joked, hoping that wasn't what he meant.

"Yes," Nolan said.

He was certainly direct. But then again, that was his job, she supposed.

"Can I plead the 5th?" she said, lamely.

"That's not really what this session is all about," Nolan said.

Again, she had the vague feeling that she was being tested—and that she had just given the wrong answer.

"I have always been very sexually attracted to House," she admitted. She felt her face turn red.

"So why haven't you two had sex?" Nolan asked, matter of factly.

"We did!" they answered, in unison.

"You mean back at Michigan, right?"

"Right," Cuddy said.

"No, I mean since then. You're both adults, both single. Obviously highly attracted to each other. What's held you back?"

"I'd love to hear House's answer to this," Cuddy said.

"House?" Nolan said.

"She's my boss," House said.

"And you've always been such a rule follower," Nolan said sarcastically.

"What if it didn't work out?" House said. "She'd still be my boss."

"So you're saying, you were afraid to pursue Dr. Cuddy because if things didn't work out, it might get . . . uncomfortable at work?"

Cuddy felt a little insulted by this.

"I didn't mean it like that," House said. He looked at her, apologetically.

"What then?" Nolan probed.

There was a long pause. Then House finally said:

"Have you ever wanted something so much you were afraid to have it?"

"I think so. Yes," Nolan said. "Can you elaborate?"

House scratched his beard.

"No less an authority than the great Dr. James Wilson once said I was afraid to take a chance on Cuddy because it was too big a chance. And much as I hate to admit it, I think he was right."

Cuddy bit her lip. Now Nolan was looking at her.

"What about you?"

"Me? I practically threw myself at him," she said, with a dry chuckle.

"I wouldn't exactly say _that_," House said.

"I had a . . . loss. A baby I was trying to adopt, named Joy. It fell through. House came over to the house. We kissed. I was going to have sex with him that night. But he left."

"Hey! I was being gallant."

"I know. And I thanked you for it. It was a very gentlemanly thing to do. But after that, I thought we might. . .get closer. And instead, it seemed like you did everything in your power to push me away."

"For example?" Nolan said.

"I finally put my cards on the table," Cuddy said. "We were in his office, actually. I said, 'Everyone knows this is going somewhere'—or something to that effect. And then I said, 'I think we're supposed to kiss now.' He said, 'We already did that.' And he grabbed my tit."

"How did that make you feel?"

"Embarrassed, violated, hurt. . . like I was a fool for thinking I could achieve real intimacy with him."

"And House? Why _did_ you respond that way?"

"I wanted to touch her tit," House said, with a shrug.

Both Nolan and Cuddy glared at him.

Then he sighed. "Sorry, that was Old House emerging for a second there. New House might admit that it was me just doing that thing I do. Where I push people away so I don't get hurt."

"But you hurt _her_," Nolan said. "Didn't that bother you at all?"

"Of course it did," House said, defensively. "That's why I got her the desk."

"The desk? I must be missing something here," Nolan said. "Is that a code of some sort?"

"Yes, it's code for DESK," House said.

"House dug my old college desk out of storage," Cuddy explained. "Gave it to me as a gesture of apology."

"Which she never thanked me for, by the way," House said.

"It was hard to thank you, because you were so busy entertaining that _whore_ in your office," Cuddy said.

"What whore? There was no whore in my office!"

"There was some skanky woman all over you. If she wasn't a whore, she was doing an excellent impression of one!"

And House's mouth dropped open, as his memory of that day took shape.

"Shit," he said.

"Yeah," Cuddy said. "Shit."

"I can explain. . ."

"Let's focus back on the matter at hand," Nolan said.

Cuddy and House both blinked at him, almost surprised that he was still there.

"I want to talk about House coming back to work."

"I'm relieved," Cuddy said. "He started today. We just need to get his medical license in good order."

"No, I don't mean this time," Nolan said. "Although I'm glad you'll be practicing medicine again, House. It was a waste of your gifts. I'm talking about two weeks ago. When House first came home from Mayfield. What were your expectations then?"

Cuddy pursed her lips.

"It was like when I lost Joy all over again. I thought House and I had a breakthrough. I thought we might actually gain a new closeness—instead, he held me at arm's length."

"And what were your expectations, House?" Nolan said.

"I . . .also felt like we had a breakthrough," House said. "There had been some. . .letters."

"Yes, you told me about the letters, House. You said they meant a lot to you. So . . . what went wrong?"

"She started treating me like this pathetic, fragile, breakable thing," House said.

"I did not!"

"You looked at me like I was a freak," House said.

"You're imaging things! Yes, I was upset when you said you no longer wanted to practice medicine. Yes, I was worried about you. But mostly I was just upset that you treated me so coldly."

"I wasn't cold."

"You came into my office with Foreman and you quit."

"I came back to talk the next day but you were cozying up to Pukas!"

"I wasn't cozying up to anyone!"

Quite unexpectedly, Nolan laughed.

They both shot him a look.

"_What?_" they barked, in unison.

"In all my years of practice, I've never seen a couple that both seem to want the _exact same thing_ circle each other so blindly," he said.

He turned to Cuddy: "Lisa, do you want to be with House?"

Cuddy gulped. She looked over at House, who gave her a bit of a puppy dog look.

It felt like she was standing on the edge of a platform—again. And like the fool she always was, she was about to take that leap.

"Yes," she said.

"And House, do you want to be with Lisa?"

House shifted his jaw a bit, swallowed.

"Yes," he said, almost defiantly.

Now they were staring at each other.

Nolan rubbed his palms together, as if to suggest he was wiping his hands of the whole thing.

"Go. Leave. Have sex. Be together. My work here is done."

House and Cuddy looked at each other curiously. Were they supposed to . . .leave?

"Yes. Go! Shoo!" Nolan said, reading their body language. "I have patients with real problems to tend to." Then he turned to House. "Speaking of which, same time next week?"

"See ya then, doc," House said, popping up.

He and Cuddy slowly made their way to the parking lot.

It was about 7 pm, just turning dark.

He walked Cuddy to her car. They were walking so closely, their hands occasionally touched.

"That was. . ." he started.

"Interesting," she finished.

"Do you have time to go someplace," he said. "To talk?"

"And by talk, you mean have sex?" she teased.

"No! I meant talk. Process. Debrief. We can go to Sullivan's if you like."

"Or. . .we could go back to your place," she countered.

He involuntarily licked his lips.

"Better still," he said plainly.

"I thought you'd prefer that option," she said.

"You have always been a woman of sound and impeccable judgment," he said, smiling at her. "Is there someone you need to call? A sitter?"

"She's staying til 10," Cuddy said.

"I like the sound of that," House said.

"Me too."

_Yes, to be continued. . ._


	6. Chapter 6

**A note from moi: I always feel bad when people write "I really like where this is going!" and then I wrap up the fic in the next chapter. But yes, this is the last chapter of Yours. I basically wrote it to right a few annoying wrongs from S6: Not only do Wilson and Cuddy reach out to House at Mayfield (because of **_**course**_** they would!), Lydia is just House's nice lady friend (because he's **_**in love**_** with Cuddy, people) and Lucas is reduced to the pest/nuisance/irritant that he actually is. So now it's over. **

**But remember: The best/worst thing about me as a fic writer is that I have a short attention span, so onto the next one! **

**Also, this chapter contains semi explicit sex, by my standards at least. Since most of my fics are basically wearing a chastity bracelet, just wanted to give you a head's up on that.**

**As always, thanks for reading and commenting.- atd**

And now she was in his apartment.

Really in his apartment (at least he hoped), not a figment of his imagination, not a hallucination—but the actual Lisa Cuddy, in the flesh.

And what fine flesh it was. She was dressed simply, in a red silk blouse and grey skirt. She looked gorgeous. He had wanted to tell her that before, back in Nolan's office. But he didn't talk to Cuddy that way. (When he liked the way she looked, his default reaction was to mock her, make some crack about her having an ass the size of a hippo in heat.)

He jammed his hands in his pockets.

"You look pretty," he said.

She blushed.

"Thank you," she said, and smiled demurely.

Now _that _wasn't so hard.

"Drink?" he asked.

"That definitely sounds like a good idea."

They were awkward still—both trying to find their voices in this new reality, figure out what this _was_.

He squinted into his liquor cabinet.

"I have no wine," he said apologetically. "I have. . .vodka? Gin?"

"What are you drinking?" she asked.

"Scotch."

"I'll have a scotch then," she said.

He fumbled a bit with the bottles and glasses, poured two scotches, handed her one.

She sat on the couch ("_Hold my hand" she had said in his hallucination_) and he sat across from her, in the chair where he had imagined her sleep. _("I haven't lied to you in 20 years."_)

She seemed surprised that he didn't sit next to her.

"Oh," she said quietly, when he settled into the chair.

Then she took a sip of the scotch, nearly choked on it.

"It's strong!"

"I could dilute it with some water," he said, popping up. "Or ice."

She laughed.

"No, it's good. I like it." And she took another, adorably defiant sip.

"Okay," he said, sitting back down.

They looked at each other.

"So. . ." House said.

"So . . ." Cuddy echoed. "That session was pretty intense, huh?"

"Yeah."

"I like Nolan, though. He's got a built-in bullshit detector."

"Tact is not one of his strengths," House said.

"But you like him," Cuddy said.

"I _respect_ him," House said.

"Better still . . ."

She was thinking that there were few people House liked but even fewer that he respected. When he liked _and _respected someone—well, that was the rarest thing of all.

She looked at him. He looked so good to her, in his black tee-shirt and jeans, his long legs stretched out in front of him, that effortless, elegant masculinity he managed to possess. (How could she ever, for a second, thought that the coarse, blunt John House was his biological father?). She really wished he had sat next to her on the damn couch.

"I felt like Nolan was acting as our matchmaker," she said, chuckling nervously.

"The world's first black, male yenta," House said.

She smiled.

"He also sometimes thinks he's an exotic dancer named Cherry," House said.

Jokes. Always jokes, Cuddy thought.

She looked at him, seriously.

"House, I know that you're scared," she said. "I'm scared, too."

He blinked.

"But there's a difference," he said pointedly. "You're scared of practical things, like: Can I possibly introduce him to my child? How am I going to supervise him after I dump him?"

"No," Cuddy said. "I'm scared that I'm going to get hurt—again."

House stared into his glass for a long time.

"I was thinking about what Nolan said before," he said, musingly. "About how in the course of protecting myself, I hurt others—hurt _you _specifically."

Now he looked at her.

"The funny thing is, I would fucking kill anyone who hurt you."

She bit her lip. She wasn't used to this kind of candor from him.

"I know you didn't mean to, House."

"No, I did not," he said.

"I've already forgiven you."

"I'm really trying hard not to be that hurtful guy anymore," House said. "The problem is, he took 50 years to create. Might take a little more time to destroy."

"I think it's going well so far," she said, smiling at him.

"You think?" he said, scratching his head. "Cause I hear that chicks don't actually go for the sensitive type."

"Hey, Wilson has had a pretty good run."

"Did you just compare me to Wilson? Get out!" He pointed jokingly to the door.

She laughed.

"Sorry. Trust me, you are in no danger of being mistaken for James Wilson." Then, feeling bold from the scotch, she added: "He doesn't turn me on one bit."

House gulped, started to say something. Then he took note of her empty glass.

"Another drink?" he said.

She held out her thumb and forefinger— just a splash. He ignored her—filled her glass almost to the top.

She took it, folded her legs underneath her, and gave him a flirty look.

"So . . . now what?" she said.

"Now we . . . talk some more," he said.

She tried to mask her disappointment. Hey, if the man wanted to talk, the man wanted to talk.

"What about?" she said.

"You never told me your fantasy," he said, slyly.

She laughed, relieved.

"You're like a dog with a bone!" she said.

"Apt analogy," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"Why are you so obsessed with my fantasy?"

"I showed you mine. It only seems fair that you show me yours."

That actually made sense to her. She had told him about her fantasies as a way of leveling the playing field, of allowing him to save face. This seemed like a natural extension. Besides, she really wanted to have sex with him. And talking about fantasies was good foreplay.

"Which one?" she said playfully, rolling the strong drink on her tongue.

"There are _multiple_ fantasies?"

"We've been at this for a long time," she said.

He gave her a self-satisfied smile.

"Pick a favorite."

"Maybe I can tell you the one I have most often."

"Yes please."

She gave him a provocative look.

"You sure you're ready for this?"

"Oh, I'm ready," he said, sitting on the edge of the chair and unconsciously spreading his legs a bit. "I was born ready."

"Okay. . .There's been an emergency in town—a train crash of some sort. The emergency room is swamped. It's all hands on deck—including you."

"If I'm working in the ER, you know this is a fantasy," House cracked.

She looked at him.

"Are you going let me tell my story or what?"

"All ears," House said.

"It's late. You and I have been working for hours—close together. We're both a little hot and sweaty."

He shifted a bit in his chair.

"I'm exhausted," she continued. "So I decide to secretly slip into an exam room to take a nap. I lie back on the table and I start to fall asleep. That's when a man enters the room. . ."

"Please be me, please be me. . ." House said, in mock incantation.

Cuddy smirked at him.

"It's you. My eyes are closed but I can just sense it. You walk up to me."

"What are you wearing?" House said.

"Ummm, white blouse and a skirt. I had a jacket, but I've taken it off because I was so hot. And the first few buttons on my blouse are undone."

"Can I see your bra?"

"Just the top of it."

"What color is it?"

"Red."

House inhaled a bit.

"Then what do I do?" he said, softly, already turned on.

"You start to unbutton my blouse, very slowly, very methodically. And then you take off my blouse and place it on the chair."

"So now you're just wearing the red bra."

"Right. And the skirt and my thong. But then you take those off, too."

House gulped.

"You're completely naked now."

"Yes."

"And is the door locked?"

"No, it's closed, but not locked. Anyone could walk in on us any moment."

"What does your pussy look like?" he said.

"It's smooth, except for one small strip of hair."

House licked his lips.

"Then what I do?"

"You start to touch me."

"Where?"

"All over."

"Your breasts?"

"Yes."

"Your ass?"

"Yes."

"Your pussy?"

"Not yet. You're waiting. You're letting the tension build."

"Are you wet yet?"

"Oh, I've been wet since you unbuttoned my blouse."

His breathing got heavy.

"So then what do I do?" His voice had that raspy quality men got when they were turned on. She didn't need to look at his jeans to know that he was hard as a rock.

"You start to kiss me and lick me all over."

"Your breasts?"'

"Yes."

"Your nipples. . ."

"Yes, you especially enjoy sucking and licking my nipples."

"Yes I do. . ." he said. "What kind of noises are you making?"

"I'm moaning. Very quiet moans of pleasure."

"Fuck," House said. It was taking all of his strength not to touch himself. "Then what?"

"Then, finally, you touch my pussy."

"With my tongue," he said eagerly.

"Not at first. With your finger. One finger, then two, then three. . ."

"Are your moans getting louder?"

"Yes. But it's not until you go down on me that I really start to . . .purr."

"What does it feel like?" House said.

"My pussy?" she said, looking at him. "It feels warm and soft and wet."

"And what does my tongue feel like inside you?"

"It feels good—so good. It's making me come."

They were both totally worked into a lather this point.

"Oh God," he said. He couldn't take it anymore. "Lie back."

"No," she said. "I have a better idea."

And with that, she got up from the couch, and sat on his lap, straddling him.

She started to kiss him. He kissed back, ravenously, his mouth and tongue thick with desire. She began to unsnap his jeans, pulled him out.

"Your leg?" she asked.

"Doesn't hurt," he breathed. "But your fantasy?" He was unbuttoning her blouse, kissing her neck and her cleavage, succumbing to the feel of her hand on his cock.

"I have a new fantasy now where I tell you my fantasy and fuck you on this chair."

"You're going to be the death of me, Lisa Cuddy," he said—and let out a groan as she eased onto him.

#####

They had sex two more times—the second time, he did recreate the salient parts of Cuddy's fantasy. And then, she looked at her watch and realized it was 10 o clock.

"Damn" she said, popping up. "I'm late."

He was lying in bed naked, looking deliriously happy, and slightly smug. ("Was it as good as the fantasy?" he had asked, nibbling at her ear. "Better," she replied.)

"No," he said, grabbing her arm. "Stay."

"I can't. I'm already late for the babysitter."

"We waited 20 years to do this. You can't stay for another 20 minutes? Please?"

He was giving her the puppy dog eyes.

She was helpless in the face of his sexiness.

"Okay," she said. And leaned in to him, started to kiss him. He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her toward him. Then she snapped out of it.

"Shit! No! I've been with you for three hours and you're already making me an irresponsible mother." But she was smiling when she said it.

She got dressed quickly, as he watched her from the bed.

"See you tomorrow?" she said.

"Absolutely," he agreed.

######

And this would be the true test, Cuddy thought to herself. She was sitting in the cafeteria the next day, alone, wondering if he would find her.

She had felt so close to him last night—she was _this_ close to saying "I love you."

But intimacy with House was an elusive thing—a slippery bar of soap.

After she lost Joy, she had felt close to him, too. And then he had pulled away.

When he was in Mayfield, after the letters, again she felt a new intimacy. And he had pulled away.

Now, after yesterday, after that revealing session with Nolan ("Do you want to be with her?" Nolan had asked. "Yes," he had said plainly—no wisecracks, no deflections, no denials), and after their great sex, after the way he had begged her to stay, held her in his arms, she felt closer to him than ever.

But would he pull away again? Was she simply setting herself up for more, even greater disappointment?

She was literally having this thought when a flower—a white iris—dropped onto her tray.

"Hi," House said, sliding into the seat across from her.

"Hi," she said, grinning like the school girl in love she had, in fact, always been. She rested her chin on her hand. "You got me a flower," she said.

"Picked it myself, from the coma patient in room 211."

"I'm sure she won't notice it's gone."

"Probably not. She died 20 minutes ago."

"You stole a dead woman's flower. How romantic."

"It is, in a goth sort of way."

She laughed.

"You're impossible," she said.

"You look pretty today," he said, leaning back and taking her in.

She would never tire of hearing him say it.

They beamed at each other.

"This looks cozy," an unpleasant voice said.

They looked up. Lucas.

On impulse, Cuddy reached across the table and grabbed House's hand.

"It is," she said.

She had no idea how House would react: Would he recoil? Drop her hand? Make a joke?

Instead, he held her hand back, the tiniest of smiles playing at the corner of his lips—like he was trying to suppress the smile but he just couldn't help himself.

Lucas folded his arms.

"So what? You two are together now?" he snapped.

House looked at Cuddy.

"Yeah," he said.

THE END


End file.
